


Personal Pasts

by Stariceling



Category: Tintin (Comics)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Death References, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stariceling/pseuds/Stariceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin and Chang getting to know each other a little better while they were hiding in the trainyard. (Takes place in The Blue Lotus.) Friendship fic with random fan speculation on Chang's and Tintin's pasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Pasts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Tinin kinkmeme, before realizing it didn't fill the prompt at all. Oops.

It’s about an hour to sundown, judging by the light slanting between the boards of the old boxcar where they are hiding. Chang, who remained vigilant through the whole train ride, keeping close to Tintin’s wounded arm to protect him from even an accidental jostle, has finally reached the edge of his endurance. He’s dozing where he sits at Tintin’s side, though every so often his head will lift and his eyes will flutter as he tries to stay awake.

They’re nearly to safety, but Tintin can’t seem to relax. If Thomson, or Thompson, had caught them on the platform they would have been separated at the very least. Chang might have been arrested for tampering with official documents, might have been hurt in their escape, might have been left vulnerable to Mitsuhirato’s men. . . Constantly turning situations over and over in his mind looking for possibilities is a good habit for an investigative reporter, but a troubling one when he’s thinking of a friend who is becoming dearer to him by the hour. Tintin usually doesn’t have the time to mull over consequences, and he doesn’t particularly like it.

Being able to talk with his friend would stop the nagging thoughts, but he doesn’t want to disturb Chang any sooner than necessary. Chang is the first friend he’s found who can keep up in such a headlong rush from one perilous situation to the next, apart from Snowy of course. He’s done more than just keep up. Chang has been looking out for him the whole time, even suggesting the sling to keep him from re-opening the wound on his arm. He has more than earned a little rest.

Snowy is quiet as well, muzzle resting drowsily on his front paws. He’s chosen to stretch out right between them. He understands waiting, and has already given up with his hopeful whines to be off already.

Waiting is the difficult part. Right now Tintin thinks he would like to be the one to whine and paw at the boxcar door like Snowy. This isn’t even a stake-out. He has nothing to watch for but the unmoving puddles of sunlight on the floor. 

Chang murmurs something in his sleep, but Tintin’s Chinese still isn’t quite good enough to catch the words. He thinks it’s probably just dream nonsense until he catches his name, and then he bends close, straining to hear the words.

He may be wrong when thinks Chang says, “Don’t leave me.” He hopes he’s wrong.

Shifting a little closer, Tintin whispers, “I’m right here,” under his breath. There’s no way to really make his presence known without waking Chang, and he wants to let his friend rest.

In response Chang leans towards him and falls against Tintin’s shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, he misses Tintin’s wound, but Tintin starts in surprise and Chang jerks awake all at once.

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

Tintin has to shush him gently. He hasn’t glimpsed anyone searching the train yard for hours now, but it’s better to be safe. “It’s okay. You’ve earned some rest, and Snowy’s helping me keep watch.”

“Did I hurt you?”

Tintin shakes his head. “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt at all.” That isn’t strictly true. He can feel the wound every time he moves, but that isn’t Chang’s fault and there’s no use in making Chang worry over it.

Chang doesn’t call him out on the lie, at least not outright. “I’ll look at it,” he offers.

Before Tintin can give more than a nod, he is turning back Tintin’s coat to expose the bandages. His hands are firm and sure, and Tintin finds he is more comfortable with Chang’s touch than he has been with many doctors. He has never liked being fussed over, but with Chang there is an absence of tutting disapprovingly over his wounds or insisting on bed rest when there are so many things that need to be done.

When Chang unwinds the bandages there are spots of dried blood, but no signs of heavy bleeding. Chang lets out the breath he has been holding and grips Tintin under the arm to keep him still. With his other hand he touches delicate patterns around the wound, feeling for any sign of inflamation that might not show in the dim light.

His fingers are warm on Tintin’s skin, strong where they hold him tight but extremely gentle as they brush close to the injury. “You would make a good doctor,” Tintin suggests. He has met a lot of doctors in his travels, and most of them were quite competent and didn’t even get tricked into putting him in padded cell, but no one has ever made an aching wound stop nagging at him with just a warm touch.

Chang is silent. He’s suddenly holding his breath again.

“I don’t think it’s infected,” Chang says, before Tintin can ask him what’s wrong. “You should drink the last of the water. We can wait a few hours and clean it again with something stronger.”

Tintin takes a few sips of the warm, musty water they have saved while Chang ties the bloody scraps of used bandage into a bundle to dispose of later. In silence, he presses a thin pad made of folded cloth over the wound and then begins to wind the last of their rough bandages over it to hold it tightly in place.

Once he has finished neatly tying off the bandages, Tintin passes the water back. “Here. You drink some too.”

Chang takes just enough of a sip to appease him, and pours the last into his cupped hand for Snowy to lap up.

“The bandage isn’t too tight?” Chang asks softly. Tintin thinks it’s just a formality, Chang must know he did it perfectly. Rather than the bandages, he’s more worried about something he can’t name. Chang’s unruly hair never managed to completely hide his bright eyes or lively face, so why do the shadows in the slowly darkening boxcar manage to make his expression unreadable when he looks down like that?

“Chang, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that no one’s ever said something like that to me.” Chang smiles to himself as he says it, but his face is still tilted down so Tintin can’t catch his eye.

Tintin tries to shift his arm experimentally, but Chang tucks it safely back into the sling before he can really test himself. His hands linger on Tintin’s arm, and Tintin isn’t sure if Chang is holding him still or simply holding on to him.

“My brother would have been a doctor. He was going to leave home in a few days, to study.”

Chang hasn’t spoken about his family. He introduced Tintin to a family friend, but other than that it isn’t a subject he has touched on. All Tintin knows is that he is an orphan. He isn’t owed Chang’s life story, and he doesn’t expect it. He might stick his nose relentlessly into other people’s lives, but he hasn’t yet made a habit of picking at old wounds without reason.

“Chang,” Tintin starts, meaning to reassure him that he doesn’t have to say anything, but Chang turns his face closer and whispers secrets that Tintin doesn’t know how to react to.

“He really could have been. . . he looked after me when I was sick. He finally took me and made me see a real doctor. Our parents always worked so hard for us, so he brought me all that way. But I. . . I must have been so troublesome. I didn’t want him to go back home that night. I was scared. I thought that was what dying must feel like and I didn’t want to be alone. He promised he would be back in the morning, but of course he never. . .”

Chang’s fingers are digging into the inside of his elbow. Tintin doesn’t know what to think. He can’t imagine anyone abandoning Chang. Before he can stop himself a single word slips out, “Why?”

“There was a landslide,” Chang’s voice is odd, flat, and for just an instant, hollow. Then it cracks and breaks. “There was. . . Everyone was swept away and buried.”

Tintin has no words. He feels like he is gawking at Chang’s pain. This isn’t like a kidnaping, or even a murder. He can’t charge out and bring back an answer. There is nothing he can do that will fix this, so he hesitates.

Snowy whines and paws at Chang’s leg. Neither of them have a hand to spare to soothe him. Chang lets out a shuddering breath that isn’t a laugh but at least it isn’t quite a sob.

“Come here,” Tintin whispers. He reaches out with his good hand to grasp Chang’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

“Your arm-”

“Don’t mind my arm.”

No matter what Tintin says, he finds it is awkward to hug someone with one arm across his chest in a sling. They end up with their foreheads pressed together, and Tintin manages to wrap one arm around Chang’s narrow shoulders.

In spite of Tintin not knowing how to fix this, Chang is breathing easier, slow and even. Tintin catches himself matching Chang’s rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” Chang whispers. “I just keep thinking about it, ever since I was almost swept away in the river. Maybe I was meant to sink down and disappear, like my family.”

“Don’t say that! You didn’t think that at the time. Don’t say it now.” He heard Chang cry out for help as he struggled to keep his head above the water. He can hold up the state of Chang’s hands after his rescue as evidence; nails broken and fingers marked with fresh scratches and splinters. Chang fought with everything he had not to be swept away. “You’re a survivor.”

The silent shock on Chang’s face makes Tintin think his friend is going to be mad at him. He frowns, bracing himself for it, because he’s not going to take back what he said. He wants Chang to survive, even if he has to fight for it.

Then Chang lets out a shaky laugh, and it is almost like their first meeting back on the river bank, because they have somehow reached an understanding. Chang finally releases Tintin’s elbow, smoothing his hand over it in apology for his grip, and hugs Tintin back.

“I’m glad you found me.”

“I am too.”

Chang sits back. Snowy lets out a hopeful yap that echoes Tintin’s feelings. He’s smiling again, a bittersweet and almost sad expression compared to his usual bright grin, but it is enough to make Tintin smile back.

It’s easy to believe Chang will be all right, but not quite easy enough to keep those few fatalistic words from nipping at Tintin’s thoughts.

“What do you think you’ll do once we’ve got this whole mess sorted out?”

“I don’t know.”

Not for the first time, Tintin wonders if Chang is at his side simply because he has nowhere else to go. It isn’t the first time he’s had his thoughts dart back to his own home, either. The little flat isn’t quite big enough for two, is it? It’s an insane idea. Even if Chang is so dear that Ms. Finch surely wouldn’t object once she got to know him. ‘He followed me home, can I keep him?’ It could never work. Why would Chang want to follow him halfway around the world?

“I think I’ll have to go back and see what’s left. I could help with the rebuilding. If the orphanage and school are gone, I could find some sort of work.”

Tintin is fairly sure Chang is a year or two younger than him, but this doesn’t stop him from being far more practical than any of Tintin’s impossible ideas. “But is there something you really want to do?”

“I was enrolled in the art school at the orphanage. If I could do something like that, to be always creating something with my own hands. . .” Chang’s sheepish smile when he confesses this puts the world back on an even keel, at least for a few seconds. “Maybe I want to be a reporter like you someday. Do all reporters jump into things like you?”

“Probably not,” Tintin laughs. “At home most of them don’t even get shot at, usually.”

“What do you have to do to become that kind of reporter? One who goes out and looks for answers and tries to fix things, like you.”

“One who gets hunted and shot at and threatened by gangsters,” Tintin amends. He’s never minded those parts of his life. Sure, he prefers chasing to being chased, but threats haven’t stopped him yet. He doesn’t like seeing others in trouble or hurt, but when it comes to himself the thrill of danger is actually satisfying. It means he’s on the right track.

Chang smiles as if he’s told a joke. He has such a bright, whole-hearted smile when he’s happy.

“Did you always know you wanted to be that kind of reporter?”

It’s an innocent question. All the answers Tintin has ever given to questions like that have been half-truths and evasions. He’s only given sideways lies, but those are for people who don’t look at him full-on, like Chang does.

“I don’t know,” Tintin surprises himself by saying. “I don’t remember.”

Chang doesn’t ask for anything more, but his silence is like a tangible thing, a blank page waiting for Tintin to fill it with words.

“About four years ago I woke up in an alley with Snowy licking my face. I don’t remember anything before that.”

Closing his eyes, Tintin tries to pull back details of that moment. It was January. Bitterly cold. He was wearing ragged clothes that did little to keep out the wind. He doesn’t know why, but he remembers being hyper-sensitive to the rough fabric against his skin, as if he was not used to what he was wearing.

He has never tried to put what little there is of his past together in words before, and now everything comes tumbling out as if he is jotting down notes for an article, before he can prune out the unnecessary. Thankfully, Chang doesn’t try to interrupt, letting the confusion of words spill out onto the safe canvas of his silence.

“Snowy’s tongue stung in the wound under my eye. It was a small puncture, but deep. I think something bit me. My right wrist was raw, nearly skinned with rope burn. There was blood at the hems of my trousers. I don’t think it was mine. With the dark color it barely showed, and I had to keep the trousers rolled up anyway because they were too long.” He takes a deep breath, and almost shudders when he lets it out. These little injuries are only footnotes. He can practically still feel his body aching with the cold of that morning. “I was fine, but if Snowy hadn’t woken me up then I might have frozen to death.”

Snowy wiggles closer, propping his forepaws and chin on Tintin’s leg. Chang rubs a hand over Snowy’s head a few times before resting it innocently on Tintin’s knee. The little point of warmth they make is enough to focus Tintin and pull the aching memory out of his bones.

“Anyway, I survived. At the time I didn’t know if I was lucky or unlucky. I was always able to talk myself into something, some kind of work to feed us. Without Snowy at my side I never could have made it.” Snowy pricks his ears and wags his little tail enthusiastically. He knows he is being praised.

“I never could keep my nose out of things,” Tintin goes on. “I got a corner as a newsboy. I was hawking papers, selling tips I picked up to the real journalists, for their stories. I decided I was going to go everywhere, anywhere I could get to. I was going to see everything I possibly could. And I was going to write it all down so I would never forget. I guess that’s when I decided I wanted to be a reporter.”

Tintin feels as if he’s come down on the other side of a hurdle that he didn’t even know was standing in his path. He doesn’t know what he was before the night of January tenth those few short years ago, but he is confident in what he has become since his memory began. It’s easy to talk about things like having to learn the etiquette of conducting an interview. Chang makes encouraging noises and even asks small questions now, apparently understanding that Tintin has come through the most difficult part.

“. . . but I finally had a story of my own to sell. And then when he asked what name to put it under, I blurted out, ‘Tintin.’ And the editor just looks at me over his glasses and asks, ‘Is that a first or a last name?’ And I told him, ‘It’s a _singular_ name.’”

Chang is laughing into his hand, trying to stifle the noise. Tintin can’t help laughing as well. He can almost see himself, wearing that ill-fitting excuse for a suit which was already ruined from the chase, one sleeve ripped clean off, standing there bold as brass making demands on his own byline. It’s a wonder they didn’t shove him out the door with a handful of coins and print his words under one of their staff names.

Perhaps most people still think its just a pen name. All Tintin knows is that it sounds right, and it has become his proper name now. “It’s funny. I’ve never been able to resist a mystery, but I could never find a single clue about myself. I looked, but it doesn’t seem like anyone was missing me.”

“Snowy might know,” Chang suggests, his hand moving to pet the loyal terrier.

If anyone knows Snowy knows, but he isn’t talking. He only gazes up at Tintin with his bright eyes and lets out a sub-vocal ‘wuff’ of air against his knee. As if to say, ‘I could tell you, but you never listen.’

No, that’s only fancy. If Snowy is saying anything it’s probably along the lines of, ‘When can we leave and get some dinner?’

“Maybe he just found me and decided to adopt me.” It doesn’t quite sound right, even though he shouldn’t know any better. He can’t remember being without Snowy, nor can he imagine it. As if they came into existence together, each incomplete without the other. “No one knows where we came from. Maybe some day we’ll both just disappear, together, and no one will know where we’ve gone.”

“Don’t say that!” Chang suddenly protests. He grabs for Tintin’s good hand with both of his, the grip of his strong, thin fingers quickly snapping Tintin out of his odd train of thought. “If you disappear, I’ll search for you! I’ll find you!”

“Chang. . .”

Shaken out of his unaccustomed dreamy meanderings by Chang’s grip, Tintin suddenly can’t understand why his friend looks so distraught. He was just talking, after all. Things like that don’t really happen.

He smiles, squeezing Chang’s hand reassuringly. “You’re a good friend.” He doesn’t know if he should admit it, but, “I’ve never been able to tell someone about all of this before. Never even wrote it down.”

It’s not like him, he suddenly realizes. Any one of those tiny details that might have been a vital clue, just waiting to be forgotten with the next rap on the head. What important details has he already forgotten? What has been pushed out of his head by new adventures?

“Tintin,” Chang calls to bring him out of his frantic thoughts, his gentle voice suddenly firm enough to put Tintin’s panicking mind to rest.

“Yes?”

“I’ll remember,” Chang promises.


End file.
